


Occasions of some poise

by Lilliburlero



Category: King Lear - Shakespeare
Genre: Anal Sex, Goddesses, Masturbation, Mid-Canon, Multi, Nature, Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:56:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3153068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regan's sexual fantasies aren't what you'd call subtle.</p><p>*</p><p>Advisory: dominance dynamics, fantasy of a threesome including oral and anal sex, masturbation.</p><p>Takes place after Act 2, scene i, from which the title is taken.</p><p>*</p><p>to reconditarmonia's <a href="http://lilliburlero.dreamwidth.org/61161.html?thread=89833#cmt89833">request</a> for Edmund/Cornwall/Regan, though I managed it only in Regan's imagination...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occasions of some poise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reconditarmonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reconditarmonia/gifts).



She thinks it is an odd spot for a defence wound. She can’t think of any way he might have got it without leaving himself exposed to a much more serious, even a mortal one. Perhaps affection born of Nature had induced his assailant to forbear—but, she thinks, a lopsided smile twitching the left-hand side of her face, it is not the goddess she knows who would demur at the spilling of shared blood.

This—this _bastard_ interests her. Her husband had interested her once, before she married him. Or rather, his brutality had interested her. But like most brutes, he had proved sentimental, given to declaring that his _ickle pwinceth mutht have the betht of everyfink_ , and he would _pwotect her from the big bad cwazy world_ : just thinking of it makes her want to run around in circles flapping her hands at the wrists and screaming (she substitutes tensed shoulders and a tightly locked jaw) and as for—how could he?—how _could_ he think she would want, under any circumstances _at all_ , let alone _those_ circumstances—to address him as _Daddy_? She had put a stop to all that nonsense, sharpish. He had sulked. Her husband had not interested her for some time.

She gives the bastard her sash to staunch his wound. Their eyes meet. His are wide, bloodshot, uncanny as ingenuous eyes belonging to grown people always are: the eyes of an infant who would devour the world, but has strength only for his mother’s breast. She has borne a child, a daughter who never suckled properly, turned the colour of damsons and died. 

The bastard is not brutal. Brutes live in some cognisance, however primitive, of civilisation. And without brutes to uphold and underpin it, civilisation itself collapses into brutality. The bastard is something else: cruel, ruthless, as little to be commanded as the wind or rain. He cannot be brought into service, despite the promise he is making even now to her husband.

That night, in a lumpy, cold, insufficiently-aired guest bed, her fingers wander to her cunt and her mind to a dream of dominion. 

She is sitting on a carved chair on a platform. Her silver headdress is horned like the moon. Her arms, ringed with gold, are upheld in a square, hieratic pose, her palms open. Below her golden torc she is naked, daubed with red clay paint. Her legs are planted apart. Each leaning over one arm of the throne, both wearing leather collars and shirts of undyed linen, her husband suckles her right breast, the bastard her left. Their heads touch and their hair mingles: one dark, one fair. The bastard unlatches himself and steps away, down from the dais. Her husband traces with his tongue her side, the incurve of her waist, her hipbone. His mouth is clabbered with clay. On his hands and knees before her, his chin propped on the seat of the throne, he parts the lips of her cunt and laps at it. The bastard, standing behind him, pushes her husband’s shirt up over his arse and lifts his own. His prick stands stock straight, its tip passing his navel. He licks his hand and strokes his cock, then squats to ease it between her husband’s arse-cheeks. Her husband howls and groans into her cunt. The bastard laughs, an unsteady titter. Their eyes meet. His are wide, bloodshot, worshipful. She is his goddess.

Beside the insensate sack of vinous snores to whom she has pledged her body, her loyalty and her love, she stiffens, lets successive shudders rack her, and dies a little.


End file.
